


Vigil

by Elektra Pendragon (elekdragon)



Category: Lord of the Rings (2001 2002 2003)
Genre: M/M, Schmoop, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-02-29
Updated: 2004-02-29
Packaged: 2017-10-15 05:14:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/157394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elekdragon/pseuds/Elektra%20Pendragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Boromir and Faramir celebrate the winter solstice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vigil

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by vague tales of pagan winters in the old days. Isildur and Anarion are my favorite boys of Gondor, and I tend to think of Boromir and Faramir in their terms--which probably means absolutely nothing beyond just WHY Faramir is always telling Boromir stories of the brothers when I write about them.

Shadows crept across the courtyard, bleeding into the light until the last of it was stained, darkened, and forgotten. The dusk was silent, but the night was loud. The great hall echoed with a mighty roar as the men shouted to the darkened sky. Flint was struck, and torches sputtered to life, filling the darkened hall with golden light. The roar settled into boisterous singing and voices raised in stories and camaraderie. A great feast filled the long tables, and ale was plentiful.

In the darkness of the longest night, Minas Tirith was filled with the soft glow of torch, candle and fire. The greater families gathered in the hall to feast with the Steward, but in every home there was celebration all across the land. It was the time of the vigil, of welcoming back the sun, of gathering with friends and family to wait out the night.

Boromir sat on his father's right, smiling and laughing and sharing in the great stories, but his mind was distracted. The bitter cold of winter filled the stone and made his hands pale against the darkness of his cloak.

Faramir had not been invited home for the celebration. On this of all nights he was out scouting for Orcs, patrolling the dead streets of Osgiliath, or perhaps even hidden in a cave with a fire of his own. Denethor cared not what his younger son did, as long as he was spared the sight of him. As much as Boromir hated the thought, he performed for his father, telling valiant tales of his exploits, or joining in a song of celebration. He tried not to let his thoughts and fears linger, but he could feel a hollowness in his words that no one seemed to hear.

The hours grew older. Some too old or too drunk to keep the vigil stumbled from the hall, but the great space still teemed with light and heat and life. Young women smiled shyly at their suitors. Friends exchanged kisses under the mistletoe. Denethor wove his way through the crowd, receiving his due accolades for another year of a fine and just rule. King in his own mind, Denethor flourished under the adoration of his people, those closest to his heart receiving reward for loyalty, fealty, and service.

Boromir slipped into the shadows of the tall statues, withdrawing from the light and the celebration. He lingered for long moments, watching his father move through the crowd until he was sure he was forgotten. Then he crept past the celebrants and out the open door.

The choked air of hall was cleared from his lungs with an expansive sigh, and finally Boromir felt free to let his smile slip. He scowled up at the stars as they moved cold and distant overhead. A burst of laughter drove Boromir further into the shadows, until the warmth of the hall had left him completely. He pulled on his gloves and wrapped the warm cloak closer around his shoulders, but he left his face bare, turned towards the East. The night was not yet old enough that he could see the first blush of sunrise, and soon his cheeks grew numb from the constant wind from the mountains.

He was just contemplating returning to face his father once more when the trilling of a bird called his attention. The sound fluttered on the wind, sweet and soft, like the touch of a feather. It was an odd sound, a spring bird's call in the cold of winter. The noise fluted once more, insistent, and with a genuine smile Boromir set off into the shadows to follow it. His steps were light over the stone as he traced his way through the streets and levels of Minas Tirith, the trill always just a few steps ahead of him, leading him down.

As Boromir passed, he caught glimpses into the homes. The soft light of hearth and festival greeted him warmly. The old, familiar scent of winter bread being baked was comforting, leading Boromir's mind back to childhood adventures, of innocent times when he and his brother would sneak out and enjoy the long night, holding their own vigil. How many times had they fallen asleep in some forgotten corner, huddled together for warmth? So determined to greet the new sun, and yet still too young to stand the night's long watch.

The streets dimmed as more and more houses were unoccupied, yet Boromir would have known the way without his soft-whistling guide. The cold stone echoed his footsteps as he slipped down long-forgotten passages and braved uneven steps. Though no longer a child, Boromir held to the child-like belief that the only feet to cross these paths in centuries were those of his brother and himself. It was their city, and they knew every corner, every passage, every entrance. How better to protect their people than to know the citadel better than the men who designed it?

Boromir fell into a pitch dark. His feet scuffled on the uneven rock, his hands stretched out to the walls to guide him. The songbird no longer sung, but he knew the way. He closed his eyes, relying on touch and memory to guide him.

The wind was icy but sweet, free of the smell that plagues all cities. Boromir opened his eyes, turning to look up at the White Tower shimmering in the starlight. It was a very long journey, but he no longer felt tired.

A low whistle, short and piercing, cracked behind him. Boromir could barely glimpse movement before it blended into rock and hill. He followed, and, cresting the boulder's edge, he shielded his eyes. A fire, even one small and humble, was startling after so much darkness. He stumbled forward into the sheltered crag, climbing up into the natural alcove.

"I thought you might have forgotten the way," a soft voice chided in Boromir's ear.

"Never, little brother." Boromir turned, feeling laughter rise up in his throat at seeing Faramir. Instantly their arms were around each other, embracing tightly after so long a separation. Their father ever conspired to keep them apart, but, somehow, they always found a way back home.

The rock was not as comfortable as the chairs in the hall, and the food was not as rich or as fresh, yet Boromir found the simple fare to be far more satisfying. They shared a flask of water as Faramir softly recounted his doings these past few weeks. These were stories that were never told around the great tables, acts of bravery never celebrated by his people, and yet day after day Faramir defended Gondor. Even as he felt great pride, a sadness crept over Boromir's thoughts.

Faramir quieted as Boromir stared into the fire, his expression soft as he searched Boromir's face. Finally Boromir met his brother's eyes, feeling a tugging in his throat. "Enough talk of fighting. Tell me a story. Something warm for the season."

Faramir's head tilted as he considered. It was unusual for Boromir to not be interested in battles and fighting. He remained quiet for a long moment, then, slowly, he began to speak. His voice at first was soft, almost like the birdcall that had led Boromir outside, but as the story progressed, his voice grew louder until it rang off the walls, engulfing Boromir in the story. It was an old one, told many times by many men. In fact, Boromir had overheard snatches of the tale being shared in the great hall that very evening. But no one could speak like Faramir, no one could bring the characters to life.

Isildur and Anarion welcoming the new sun as they first reached the lands that would become their kingdom. The blooming of the White Tree. The building of the White Tower. Ancient legends of Elves and Men and the glory of Gondor.

Boromir stretched out on the rock ledge, letting his head rest in Faramir's lap. The old hiding place was a strange miracle of nature, open to allow the men to watch the stars and view the horizon, and yet sheltered enough to keep out the elements and hide their fire's light. Boromir watched the stars turn and imagined Isildur sitting with his brother in this very spot. It was as comforting as Faramir's hand in his hair, his voice in his ear.

Boromir could feel the weight of the night, the long watch making his limbs heavy and his body relaxed. The sky lightened as the fire burned down, the death of one light feeding the life of the other. As the first touches of gold crept up the sides of the rocks, Faramir's voice rose in an ancient song. The words were old, their meaning nearly forgotten in the age since they were created. It was a song of welcome, of joy, of celebration.

Boromir joined his brother in singing the refrain, the foreign words stumbling more clumsy from his mouth than Faramir's. He sat up, sharing a smile with Faramir as they sang the louder, feeling that childish excitement of waiting for the long-expected sun to rise. His arm slid around Faramir's shoulders.

The edge of the sky blushed and burned. A shimmer, like hidden gold, peeked over the horizon, growing bolder as more and more of the disk climbed into the sky. Boromir's singing trailed off as he closed his eyes, lifting his face to capture more of that warmth, concentrating on the feel of the reborn sun gracing his skin, silently blessing him with its touch.

The gentle pressure of lips on his own was as warm and pleasant as the new sun. Boromir leaned into the touch, turning so that he could better taste the sweetness of his brother's mouth. Faramir's fingers slipped back into his hair, holding him close. The world took on a magic, unreal quality in the dawn, the long watch lending to the drunken weariness. They sank down onto the stone floor, discomfort forgotten as they kissed and touched. The sun warmed their skin as they pressed close, and their thick winter clothes served as the softest of blankets.

The feel of Faramir's skin never grew so familiar that he didn't miss it when they were parted. Always, he longed to have his brother at his side, protected and cherished as he deserved to be. Boromir licked and sucked at his brother's mouth until he could no longer taste the difference in their skin. Only then did he move down, washing away the salt of sweat with the flat of his tongue, tracing the golden lines of the sun across his flesh.

The wind did not reach them, and the sun stood still to guard them from the chill of winter, watching over them. Boromir could feel the frantic pace of his brother's heart as his tongue bathed the thickened flesh and pulsing vein, tracing spirals of pleasure over his foreskin and the tender skin beneath. Faramir's cries were as sweet and as soft as his singing voice, sweeter even, as Boromir filled his mouth with the taste and smell of his brother's erection. He teased and sucked until Faramir shivered and bucked up into his mouth, his fingers pulling almost painfully at his hair.

Boromir relaxed his hold, opening his throat to let Faramir set a frantic pace as he pushed towards his climax. Hot, strong salt-taste spread across his tongue, and he held still, savoring the familiar flavor before he swallowed. Faramir slumped beneath him, skin shimmering red-gold in the sunlight.

Briefly the fingers in Boromir's hair pulled, urging him up. As he slid up Faramir's body, his brother's fingers eased out of his long hair, trailing lightly down his shoulders to his chest. Faramir breathed heavily, still recovering from the intense pleasure, but he opened his mouth for a deep kiss when Boromir nuzzled against his cheek.

Boromir groaned into his mouth as Faramir wrapped his fingers around him, warm and wet with sweat as he stroked and squeezed. He broke off the kiss to press his forehead into Faramir's shoulder, his hips thrusting into the tight grip until he, too, reached his climax. Boromir lifted his face to watch Faramir finish cleaning his fingers,. His sleepy eyes half-closed as he purred in contentment, rubbing the remains of saliva and semen across Boromir's back as he hugged him closer.

Boromir reached blindly around the floor of the alcove, finding his thick winter cloak. He drew the soft fur around them both, cocooning them as they gave up the vigil and settled into the safety of the day. The cold of winter would return to them quickly, but the heat of each other and the new day would protect them for a time. Boromir settled closer, until their skin molded together, covering Faramir like a second cloak.

"I have missed you, little brother," Boromir whispered, his ever-troubling emotions close to the surface. He felt on the verge of tears, so powerfully did he feel the love and the loss of his brother.

Faramir petted down his hair, the soothing gesture mesmerizing. The dark thoughts melted away, leaving Boromir peaceful as he drifted into sleep.

Faramir continued caressing his hair, listening to his brother's even breathing as he watched the sun continue on its journey into the sky.

THE END


End file.
